


A Change of Cities

by tinycaesar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s), POV Original Female Character, Siblings, Sisters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-06 07:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1849987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinycaesar/pseuds/tinycaesar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A teenage girl wanders into King's Landing, confused and alone. Through extreme luck and plot armor, she doesn't die immediately.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Patricia

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a shameless OC/SI type story. If you're not a fan of that kind of fic in general, this isn't a story for you.

Trish would admit to having a terrible sense of direction, but this was ridiculous. She hadn't even turned. She was on the right street, and then she wasn't. Trish had been to New York several times before, and never had she so much as glimpsed such... not rural, but simply primitive surroundings in any part of Manhattan. Perhaps she'd somehow managed to get herself to an ethnic market? Not Chinatown; the people hawking wares were mostly white. Little Italy? No, the language sounded nothing like it. Something Germanic, she thought. But not German.

She stepped to the side of the street discreetly and consulted her map. This didn't give rise to any grand revelations about her location, so she tucked it away and checked her phone. No service?! This was New York! Perplexed and beginning to get nervous, Trish surveyed the street more seriously.

While the rush of people passing through included many distinct styles, none of them were familiar. No jeans and T-shirts, no sundresses, no business suits, and no women wearing any kind of pants at all. The shops didn't appear to have electricity, and worst of all... when Trish raised her eyes to get a look at the skyline, she saw no skyscrapers at all, only structures up to two or three floors, surrounded by an enormous wall. The tallest building in sight was a massive stone structure-- a castle, rather-- flying yellow pennants emblazoned with a buck wearing a crown like a necklace.

Okay. Okay. There had to be some kind of explanation for this. Her first priority was to find phone service, or someone with a phone. She would have to wander a bit; it wasn't as if she could get any more lost than she was. Trish decided to head toward the most obvious landmark, the castle-looking building. Not only would it be more likely to have service (hopefully), but it also seemed pretty recognizable in case someone had to pick her up.

Of course, she thought as she sidestepped a pile of manure, if they don't have cars, why would they have phones or phone service? Is this some kind of Amish community?

Her musings were cut short by the sound of fanfare. As it turned out, Trish was quite near a gate in the wall. It wasn't some tidy little entrance, but rather a solid foot-thick oaken door being hauled open by some men in fancy golden uniforms. A large group of people on horseback entered, looking for all the world like medieval reenactors. Standard bearers bore that crowned deer flag along with another, a wolf with a white background. A man wearing a crown led the party-- probably he was the "king," then. He didn't quite look the part. While he was tall and imposing, his girth was equally tremendous, part diabetes and part beer belly. He huffed and puffed along on his rather more athletic stallion. Just behind him, on his right side, rode a more kingly figure, his body solidly built, but his face with lean, sharp features. He had some pretty impressive facial hair going on there.

Their entourage followed: a gaggle of regal blonds, two preteen girls, and a mixture of warriors and other attendants. As the group made their way through, the townspeople cleared a path for them and inclined their heads respectfully. And as the whole scene unfolded, Trish had a sinking feeling that she wasn't in New York at all, that she wasn't even in America, and that she'd probably die of exposure before she even found a pay phone, let alone a ride back home, and it was all too much. So much that when her turn came to bow before this strange king-reenactor-something, she instead fell into a dead faint.

Well, that certainly made an impression.

When she opened her eyes, she blinked a few times, disoriented, and tried to focus on the face hovering above her. At the sight of a concerned-looking young man in a full suit of armor, her panic returned, and she immediately passed out again.

The second time she awoke, she was lying on a straw pallet, and rather than a soldier, a teenage girl in a simple dress was with her, working through a pile of mending. She noticed Trish and greeted her in that unrecognizable tongue. Trish shook her head and asked, "do you speak English?" The girl stared at her and shrugged, then set aside the mending. She opened a closet and retrieved an outfit not so different from the girl's own, perhaps a bit finer. She gestured at it meaningfully and left Trish to change.

It took Trish a few minutes to figure out the lacings, but she managed it. The outfit had only a chemise as underwear, leaving her feeling strangely exposed, even though the dress itself was quite conservative. She put her own bra and underwear on underneath. If she had to stay here long, she might have to suffer no underwear, but she decided to keep things feeling normal as long as possible. Her hair was too short to do anything fancy like the girl had, so she used the leather tie left for her to approximate a low ponytail. When she opened the door, the girl swept back in and put Trish's belongings in a sack. She gave her a look saying "follow me!" and led her to a corridor where Concerned Soldier from before was waiting.

Trish thought she was in the castle. The walls were stone and covered with tapestries, and the floor with rushes. The hall was narrow and had unlit sconces every twenty paces or so. The girl and the soldier guided her through many twists and turns, finally stopping at the doorway of some sort of office.

Inside, an elderly man with a wizardly beard looks up from the parchments scattered across his desk. He gestured and said something, and Trish gathered that she was supposed to sit. When she did, the girl and Concerned Soldier dismissed themselves. The girl gave Trish's things to the wizardly dude before she left.

Traitors.

What could this weird old guy possibly want with me? she wondered as they sized one another up. Is he a real wizard?

He was dressed in fancy robes, but that didn't mean much. He was mostly bald on top of his head, but his beard was pure Dumbledore. He had a huge, clunky, and not all that flattering chain necklace on, some kind of chain of office?

After an uncomfortable minute of silence, he asked in that strange Germanic tongue, " _what is your name? From where do you hail?"_ Trish put her hands up and shrugged in her best "I've got nothing" pose and replied, "I don't know what you're saying. Do you speak English?"

The old man frowned, disgruntled, and continued his queries in another language, a sliding, hissing sort of tongue even less familiar than the first. Trish obligingly humored his attempts to communicate and threw out phrases in the languages she knew, just to see if he could recognize them. He couldn't. The wizard seemed pretty frustrated, but Trish was contemplative. A few of the sounds he'd made were reminiscent of languages she'd heard before, but she really hadn't understood a word he was saying. Either she had been whisked through time to a pre-Latin era (she'd studied said language in high school), or she was stranded in another universe entirely. Or it could be a dream. A vivid, vivid dream. Yes. That was it.

Eventually, Trish took pity on him and actually tried to communicate. She pointed exaggeratedly to herself and said, "Patricia Mahoney."

He butchered the pronunciation only once, which made sense, since the man was clearly a polyglot. He then indicated himself, "Maester Pycelle."

"Master Pycelle." Was that his name or his title?

" _Maester_ Pycelle." He jangled his chain of office. Well, that answered that question.

"Maester Pycelle," she corrected.

He rewarded her with a pleased nod and fetched her bag o' stuff. He fished out her jewelry first: a copper bracelet from her best friend AJ, a claddagh ring, a charm necklace from her sister Shannon, and silvery hoop earrings. Trish was a big fan of jewelry, and she especially liked to dress up for days out in the city. Pycelle examined each closely-- trying to determine where they came from, most likely.

He set them aside, moving on to her clothes: a tank top, a flowing blouse, nice jeans, and flats. He examined the stitching with fascination-- no sewing machines?-- and attempted to decipher the text on the tags. Trish read a few aloud for him, and his eyebrows rose slightly. What assumptions had this guy made about her-- that she was poor and therefore illiterate, or that as a female she must be illiterate? Or was it just something about the tags themselves? She eyed him warily.

Next was her purse, a faux-leather bag to be slung over her shoulder. He seemed confused about her lip gloss, even when she applied some to demonstrate. It was probably too many anomalies, a woman wearing pants and makeup. In certain times of history, Trish recalled vaguely, makeup was the domain of actresses and whores. Respectable women didn't wear it. The cell phone had him even more perplexed. She took it away from him almost immediately and turned it off. When he tried to touch it again, she said "no" firmly and shook her head. He understood that. Irritated, he rifled through her wallet instead. She resisted the urge to smack his hands away from it, knowing he had no intention of stealing it, and that it would be worse not to cooperate. He goggled at the photo on her driver's license. She pointed to her name on the card and read it to him. He didn't have a clue about the bills, but he was quite interested in her coins. Last of all was the map. He looked at her beseechingly, so she explained shortly, "New York City."

Pycelle unrolled one of his own scrolls, a map. Unfamiliar text on unfamiliar continents. Trish merely shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. Her jaw clenched and her hands gripped the edge of the table tightly. Maester Pycelle pointedly looked the other way.

Trish packed all her things away, the last keepsakes of home that she had. Maester Pycelle did not stop her when she left, and Concerned Soldier led her back to the room.


	2. Eddard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned Stark ponders the new arrival and is hoodwinked into taking responsibility for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whee, so here's chapter two! I hope this doesn't seem too contrived, but if it is, y'all can deal.

It was a nice, feel-good entry of King's Landing until the girl fainted. It wasn't the usual affair of someone overly nervous, excited, or hot fainting and being immediately coaxed out of the way by worried family and friends. No, this strange girl collapsed right as the royal party approached, sprawled in the middle of the street, and wearing a bizarre combination of men's fashions. Her hair was like a man's, too, only just brushing her shoulders and unbound.

When no one came to retrieve her from the crowd, a young knight by name of Anders shuffled forward to move her out of the way and attempt to wake her. The procession moved on, but it wasn't the last they saw of the strange girl. The next day, Ser Anders knocked at his solar sheepishly.

"Ah, Lord Stark, a message from Maester Pycelle?"

"Of course, Ser Anders, what is it?" he replied, waving the young man in.

"It's about that foreign girl from before; it looks like she's a real mystery. When she would not wake, Ser Tristan and I carried her to the palace to recover, and the maester was curious about her since she was so strange. She speaks some tongue no one has ever heard before, her clothing and jewelry are of an unfamiliar make, and she could read whatever text they use in her country, yet could not locate her home on a map. The Grand Maester is quite perplexed, and while it is too much a trifle for the king's own ear, he would speak with milord and Lord Varys on this matter."

"If it is too much a trifle for the king's ear, why not too trivial for mine?" It was odd, to be sure, but not a matter for the King's Hand. Robert certainly wouldn't care, that much was true.

"Milord, if what the maester suspects is true, she hails from an entirely new realm. And yet it is only one girl. Should further examination reveal her to be of import, surely you must notify the king, but it is not yet worthy of his attention. Milord." The boy cut himself off when he realized he was rambling a bit.

Ned eyed him appraisingly. "You are quite thoughtful, Ser Anders. Tell the Grand Maester I will be pleased to receive him, and the girl if need be, here. Lord Varys may certainly attend."

"Oh, I'm sure Lord Varys already knows. Milord," he quipped. "The Master of Whisperers knows much."

Ned frowned, not at the boy's cheek, but at the reminder of how Varys and Littlefinger carried out their shadow game under the king's nose. That, he resolved, needed to end, and quickly. While he understood why Jon Arryn had tolerated their indiscretions, in the long run, an honest court would be for the better.

Ned spent the morning reluctantly cataloguing expenses for the tourney with Littlefinger, whose obsequious manner made him suspect that he was being mocked. After a tense lunch with his daughters, he was almost relieved to get back to work and ponder the Grand Maester's little curiosity.

Except for her too-short hair, Lady Patricia now resembled any Westerosi maid. Or young wife, as it were. She was of an age to be wed, certainly fewer than twenty years, but long past her first moon's blood. The short hair, coaxed into a simple tie, wavered between a light brown and a dark blonde. She was fair enough, but her only truly striking feature was the pale, clear blue of her eyes.

While Maester Pycelle explained the significance of his findings, those eyes darted nervously among the three councillors. Ned reminded himself that the girl couldn't understand what they were saying and like as not had no idea who these people were. It was hard to believe anyone so young could manage to get so far from home that she literally didn't recognize the language being spoken, but Ned had been more or less the same age during Robert's Rebellion.

The really unsettling thing was that even Varys had no inkling of where this girl had come from. Even were he not as well informed as people claimed, surely an entire country could not hide from the Master of Whisperers?

"Perhaps," Ned found himself saying, "it is the work of the gods."

Pycelle and Varys stared for a moment, and then Pycelle laughed. "Of course! Why hadn't I thought of it?" Sobering, he added, "it's the only explanation, though, isn't it?"

"Stranger things have happened," admitted Varys. "In my line of work, one must learn not to be too skeptical."

Pycelle eyed him oddly. "Oughtn't a spymaster learn to be quite skeptical?"

"In some matters," Varys agreed good-naturedly. "But across the Narrow Sea we have a saying: 'truth is stranger than fiction.'"

"May we try to speak with her?" Ned interjected. As a lord, he dealt with people frequently, so perhaps he could gain some insight on the matter.

"You may try," Pycelle grumbled, "but it is like talking to a wall."

Enough people had made similar claims about Ned that he took that with a grain of salt. He made his face go soft, as gentle as when he whispered to his wife or cradled his children, and turned to her. She smiled tentatively.

"I am Lord Eddard Stark."

She dutifully parroted the phrase.

He shook his head. "No. I am ... Lord Eddard Stark. You are ... Patricia Mahoney." He punctuated each phrase with gesticulations.

She let out an "ah" of realization. "I am Patricia Mahoney! You are Lord Eddard Stark!" she proclaimed gleefully.

"Yes! That's right!" For a moment, he couldn't help but share her excitement.

"Yes, that's right!" she parroted with a grin. "I am Patricia Mahoney, you are Lord Eddard Stark, you are Maester Pycelle!" She turned to the eunuch. "You are?"

"Lord Varys."

"You are Lord Varys!"

Ned turned to his fellow councillors. "You see? She is foreign, not stupid. Not everyone would have understood so quickly. If you truly wish to discover what she knows, engage a tutor for her. If it does not matter to you, I will find a place for her as a servant, and that will be the end of it."

Patricia seemed to sense that Ned was an ally and gazed at him hopefully, nodding along with what he said.

Lord Varys concurred. "Look at her hands." He looked at Patricia and held out his hands. She took the hint and presented them for inspection, although she had clearly lost the gist of the conversation. "Those are a lady's hands. Moreover, her clothing and jewelry, you said, are of fine quality, however mannish they may be." Having made his point, he gestured for Patricia to relax. "In short, she is to be treated like Jalabar Xho: with courtesy and charity, and should we ever find a way to solve her predicament at no great cost to us, it will be done for her."

"How do we know?" argued Maester Pycelle. "It may never pay off, and the crown is already in debt. We do not need to be saddled with some useless foreign girl at a time like this."

"Were you not the one who saw her value in the first place, Maester? I agree that the crown needs no more debt. As for Jalabar Xho, he should have received an answer to his queries long ago. I will take responsibility for Lady Patricia. I am sure that she will be no trouble for Septa Mordane, and my daughters will be adequate company for her." Almost as he spoke, Ned realized that he had been tricked. Of course Maester Pycelle wanted to keep the girl. He had called the meeting in the first place. No, his goal was to foist off the expense on someone else, someone whose honor would not allow him to leave a homeless girl in the cold. Ned had walked right into that one.

Somehow, he didn't really mind. It truly was the best solution-- he already had a septa engaged, and Lady Patricia likely would keep an eye on Sansa and Arya. Moreover, he did not trust anyone in King's Landing to do right by her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's that. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Do you like Anders? He doesn't really appear in the next few chapters, but I'm a bit fond of him. In case you didn't guess, Ser Anders is Concerned Soldier from chapter one.

**Author's Note:**

> I will not update this for the next two weeks because I'm on a trip. I do have the chapters mostly ready, but I will not have internet access that is anything other than ridiculously expensive, so I'm not using it. Sorry, people.


End file.
